


Handprints

by Laurincia



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Suicide Attempt, i think i achieved that, i wanted PAIN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurincia/pseuds/Laurincia
Summary: Marks often appear at different stages of life, even under different circumstances, and it’s different for everyone. Some have them just as they’re born, and some appear as soulmates meet. For the most unfortunate, their marks appear when one of them is on their deathbed.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Handprints

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry

The first time John visited Arthur’s grave, he had loaded his old six-shooter with a single bullet. He spun the chamber, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple, and pulled the trigger. 

The gun clicked and John sighed. He put the pistol back into his horse’s saddlebag and left without saying anything. 

  
  


Arthur always said John was lucky, and John believed him. Now, he knows he’s cursed. He’s burdened with the knowledge that his soulmate was  _ right there _ in front of him the whole time, and there was nothing he could do as Arthur got sicker and sicker and the two ran up that mountain to escape from Pinkerton’s.

  
  


Two years have passed since Charles buried Arthur, and John remembers the man’s last hours like it was yesterday, with the memory only growing more painful as time passes. 

Arthur grabbed him by the arm and told John to never look back, to leave the massive pile of shit that Dutch left in his wake. They ran from Pinkerton’s and ran up a mountain to where Arthur told John to keep running, to go to his family and survive. He clasped his hand on John’s shoulder, giving him his satchel and placed his hat on John’s head with a pained smile. Arthur damn near had to kick John down the mountain for him to leave.

That was his last fight. 

Arthur held off the Pinkerton’s for as long as he could, and John ran. He ran and never looked back. He ran until the sun came up and his skin started burning.

He tripped over a rock close to a path and pushed up the sleeve to his coat. His heart stopped and his blood ran cold. A handprint wrapped around John’s arm, embedded into his skin. He tore off his coat and pulled down the collar of his shirt. Tears rolled down his face. Another handprint, on his shoulder. 

His soulmate had been Arthur all along, and John wondered if it was all some sick joke the universe was playing on him. 

Fate was a cruel mistress and she spares no one. 

  
  


A stranger came along and asked if John was alright. He offered John a ride and John accepted, asking if they could ride to Copperhead Landing before shaking his head asking for Saint Denis instead. 

Arthur said Abigail and Jack were safe with Sadie, but he couldn’t help but think that they would be better off thinking he was dead. After all, no one wants to be with a man who’s soulmate just died.

The man nodded and the rest of the ride was silent. He didn’t ask what John was doing on the ground, breathing heavily with tears streaming down his face. His sleeve was still rolled up and the black handprint on his arm was telling enough. 

  
  


The stranger dropped off John by one of the farms outside the city and John gave him some money as thanks. 

Ever since Arthur told him to leave back by the bridge, John couldn’t stop thinking about it, thinking about when exactly was the right time and how they would do it, but now, he was leaving alone. He didn’t deserve Abigail or Jack. Hell, maybe he didn’t deserve a happy ending at all. 

  
  


Arthur always said John was lucky and he believed it. But now, he can’t. Not anymore. 

  
  


John stole a horse and rode for three days, ending up north of Strawberry. He broke into an abandoned cabin and made himself home. He hid out until the commotion around the gang and the Pinkerton’s lessened.

Some days, John would go out and just ride aimlessly, going wherever the horse took him. They ended up close to Valentine, by an elderly couple’s pig farm. The old man, James, was struggling with moving a pig into its pen. John got off the horse and asked if he needed help. 

  
  


Since then, John would occasionally ride back West to Valentine to help the couple with their farm. In return, they gave him warm meals and a place to stay if needed. John learned that they were both marked and happy. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he and Arthur could have ever had that. Definitely not in this lifetime, but maybe another. 

They died just a few months later. James got tuberculosis and didn’t last long. His wife, Carole, died shortly after. 

John wasn’t a lucky man. He was the unluckiest of them all.

  
  


He found Charles near Rhodes when he rode out one day, both surprised that the other was alive. Charles told him he went back for Arthur’s body and buried him. He said Arthur wanted to be buried facing west so he could watch the sunset and remember all the fine times they had. 

  
  
  


The journey to Arthur’s grave the next year took days on horseback. John had only packed the essentials and his old six-shooter, almost not bothering with another weapon to protect himself. He ended up bringing the worn down shotgun that he had kept. John hadn’t cleaned it and the thing was just as likely to kill him as it would someone on the other end if he fired it.

  
  


He hopped off his horse when they arrived on the mountain where Arthur was buried. He never thanked Charles for going back to get Arthur’s body and give him a proper burial.

Arthur deserved better, from him, from Dutch, from everyone. 

He hitched his horse to a nearby tree and pulled out a flask and his six-shooter from the saddlebags. He patted the stallion’s neck and then sat down in front of the grave, heart heavy, revolver by his side. 

The hollow ache in his chest didn’t seem to fade with time, only seeming to get worse. It was suffocating.

John twisted off the cap of the flask, took a swig of the strong whiskey he put inside, and poured the rest of it onto the grass. 

He wanted to say something but the words never came. He sat in silence, staring at the gravestone and the flowers Charles had planted until the sky was painted with pinks, oranges, and purple hues. Charles picked the perfect place.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed back tears, picking up his gun. “I ain’t a lucky man, Arthur,” he whispered. His hand shook as he pressed the barrel against his temple once more, and pulled the trigger. 

It clicked. 

John cursed and sat a moment longer before leaving. 

There was always next year. 

  
  


John remembers a night when he and Arthur went out hunting back when they were at the Horseshoe Overlook. John had gotten tired of constant bed rest and finally had enough energy to make himself useful.

They had spent the night in the woods, sharing a tent. Arthur had stayed out by the campfire after John said he was turning in, but he couldn’t sleep. He just laid down on his bedroll with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of nature, to the crackle of the fire, Arthur’s slow and steady breathing, and the sound of his pencil making marks in his journal. 

Arthur stopped a few moments later and got into the tent alongside John. He must have thought John had fallen asleep because John felt calloused but gentle fingers tracing the scars on his face. If John reminisces hard enough, he could still feel Arthur’s featherlight touch on his cheek. 

  
  


John never realized he loved Arthur. He loved him even before his death. Who knows when it happened. Maybe it was on that godforsaken mountain when he almost froze to death after being mauled by wolves. Maybe it was when Arthur (and Sadie) got him off death row despite Dutch. Or maybe it was one of the many times the two of them had gone out hunting. 

He wondered if Arthur knew that they were soulmates before it was too late. Would it have made any difference if he did?

  
  


When John arrived back at the cabin, he dreamt of Arthur once more. He dreamt of them together, living in a quiet cottage in the mountains, away from near-constant danger. He dreamt of Arthur holding him tight and kissing the scars on his face, of Arthur rolling his eyes but still laughing endearingly when John does something stupid. He dreamt of Arthur by his side, alive and well. They were safe and happy.

He longed for that touch again, wanting nothing more than to hear Arthur’s voice, to see him alive and healthy, to feel his touch once more, to just hear him breathe and laugh one more time. He would give everything to see Arthur just one more time.

  
  


John had read through Arthur’s journal so many times that the pencil was almost faded. He had always envied Arthur’s much neater handwriting and his ability to write straight without needing to draw lines. He would gently run his fingers over Arthur’s drawings, careful not to smear the pencil. His favorites were always the intricate landscapes and scenery that Arthur would always capture perfectly. There were even a few drawings of John that Arthur had put between some sketches of various animals to fill the space.

When Arthur gave his satchel to John, he had read through the journal all in one night. He had kept it with him every time he went out and would occasionally add his own stupid doodles in the empty pages but quickly stopped. Some of his older ones were still on the pages, from when John would steal it from Arthur’s satchel to put in notes and childish scribbles of his own. Arthur found out quickly and scolded him but never fully meant it. His eyes gave it away. 

John never stopped doing it and Arthur pretended not to notice. John never realized how his heart swelled with pride and joy when Arthur would flip through his journal in camp or when they were out hunting and see John’s drawings. He would shake his head but smile regardless. 

Looking back, John kicked himself for not realizing he was in love sooner. Looking back at all those memories now, when he has no chance, it all seemed so obvious. The mark around his arm seemed to mock him.

John wasn’t a lucky man. He cursed fate for making Arthur sick and taking him away. He cursed himself for not knowing sooner.

  
  


As the days marking the third anniversary of Arthur’s death crept closer, John grew more exhausted. He couldn’t bring himself to go outside and tend to the horse he stole or to go out and hunt. No second went by where he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

  
  


All John wanted now was to be free, to be freed from the shackles of the earth, to finally be able to breathe again. 

He rode out a few days early. He hitched the horse nearby and slid out of the saddle, cursing when Arthur’s journal fell out of his pocket and onto the dirt below. A folded page slipped out, peeking out from in between the leather-wrapped cover. He tentatively picked it up and unfolded it. John held back a choked sob and his hands started shaking. 

_ John,  _

_ I ain’t sure how to begin with this, but I think even you know I ain’t gonna make it. I know I gave you a hard time for leaving all those years ago, but maybe it’s because I always knew that we were  _ ~~_ meant for each _ ~~ _ soulmates. I was never sure how or if I would ever tell you. You had Abigail, after all. But now, as Micah leads Dutch further astray and my sickness spreads, I wish I did tell you, but I can’t tell you now. I’m on death’s door. I ain’t gonna make it through this, but you can. You can survive and live a life. Just remember I’ll always love you.  _

_ — A _

John couldn’t breathe. He wanted to cry and scream and curse every living thing. Arthur knew all along. John wiped away the tears that rolled down his cheeks and tucked the piece of paper back between the leather cover. He understood why Arthur never told him. He didn’t blame the older man for it. He put the journal back into his pocket and got on his horse, headed for the nearest post office. 

  
  


He quickly scribbled out a letter addressed to Abigail, saying that he was alive and to meet him in Strawberry in a few days, promising to explain everything. He mailed the letter and rode back to his cabin. 

John might have lost Arthur, but Abigail and Jack were still alive. He spent three years wallowing in self-hatred and pity while Abigail and Jack believed he was dead. The least he could do now was give them an explanation and try to start over. Dutch and Micah were gone, the gang had been destroyed from the inside-out, and Arthur died making sure John would live. He had done a shitty job of living.

John sat on a bench outside of the post office in Strawberry, anxiously picking at his hands. He had shaved and cleaned himself up. The dark circles under his eyes persisted, but John was prepared to wait the whole day for Abigail and Jack if they even show. 

Noon comes around and someone almost tackles John out of the bench. It took him a moment to realize it was Abigail. She was livid, sobbing and yelling, saying how worried she had been and how they thought he was dead. John wrapped his arms around her and cried with her.

She eventually pulls away and tells him that Jack was in the hotel nearby, thinking that it would be better for the adults to have the conversation. He nods and takes her for a walk by the river outside of the mountain town. When they were alone, he rolled up his sleeve and Abigail gasped. 

“Oh, John,” she said quietly. “It was Arthur, wasn’t it?” She asked. 

John didn’t trust himself to speak and just nodded. He didn’t have to explain much, Abigail quickly figured out most of it. She was understanding but reluctant to forgive him for leaving her and Jack again. John didn’t blame her. He tells her about his cabin north of Strawberry and invites her and Jack, promising to be there for them. He might have lost Arthur, but he still has a family. 

Abigail agreed and the three of them went up to the cabin. Jack had grown up, now more soft-spoken and shy than he was before. John had shot a rabbit on their way up and Abigail started on a stew. There was still an uneasy tension, but in some ways, things never changed. They were a family. 

John smiled for the first time in years. His heart still ached and he couldn’t breathe some days, but Abigail and Jack were always there by his side. He had a family. He was alive. 

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly couldn’t decide between a happy or sad ending but here it is


End file.
